


Sometimes Goodbye's the Only Way (The Sun Will Set for You)

by grayscaleTestimony



Series: If the Sky Comes Falling Down For You [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Crowley Was Raphael Before He Fell (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Post-Canon, Temporary Character Death, The Archangels as Siblings, The Archangels need family counselling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-07-12 03:57:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19939837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grayscaleTestimony/pseuds/grayscaleTestimony
Summary: “I’ll see you tomorrow,” Crowley states, pulling away and heading for the door. “Love you, angel.”“I love you too, dear,” Aziraphale calls after him, watching him leave the shop before he locks the door and retires to his upstairs flat for a cup of tea.What Aziraphale doesn’t notice is the quiet commotion outside; the quick snatch of a demon as the moon rises over Soho from a familiar set of angels. Despite Crowley’s best efforts, Gabriel and Sandalphon manage to catch him by surprise and drag him away from Earth and towards Heaven, efficiently knocking him out as they take off.Or, alternatively: Crowley sees his Mother, and in quick succession, tries to punch the face of God.





	Sometimes Goodbye's the Only Way (The Sun Will Set for You)

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was born out of a single stray thought and a headcanon and it turned into almost 8k of angst, sibling dynamics, and a series. Title comes from the song "Shadow of the Day" by Linkin Park.

Five years is a long time for two people to be together, but when both parties are immortal, it’s nothing but the blink of an eye. For Crowley and Aziraphale, it’s been five years of late nights drinking, five years of dinners at the Ritz, where Crowley had even taken up eating an occasional meal or two just to humour his angel, five years of watching the ducks at St. James. Five years since they diverted Armageddon at Tadfield. Five years of alternating the planning of date nights, which is exactly what they’re up to tonight.

The angel and demon stroll through the park, Crowley’s hand on the crook of Aziraphale’s arm. The sun is setting over the horizon of London, casting rays over the park.

Aziraphale sighs, leaning into the demon.

“What’s wrong?” Crowley asks, giving a quick grip to Aziraphale’s arm. The angel waves him off.

“Oh, nothing, dear boy. Just admiring everything. The sunset’s just—”

“Beautiful, yes,” Crowley finishes, giving a fleeting glance to the horizon. “You’ve said so before. Sunrises and sunsets.”

Aziraphale gives him a small smile, shifting his arm to hold Crowley’s hand. The demon blushes, looking forward as they continue their walk.

By the time they get back to the Bentley, near eight o’clock, the sky is cast in dark blues and purples.

“Anywhere else I can take you, angel?” Crowley asks, starting the engine.

Aziraphale laughs. “To the stars,” he waxes, leaning back in his seat.

Crowley makes a face and rolls his eyes. “Can’t believe you _enjoyed_ that movie,” Crowley mutters, backing out of his parking spot at a frightening speed.

Since their retirement from their respective bosses, as Adam had so eloquently put it, they’d been catching up on recent pop culture at the recommendation of their human acquaintances. This week’s exploration had been a list of movies compiled by the Them, Anathema and Newt, and Madame Tracy. The movie about the doomed ship was near the top of the list.

“Oh, admit it, you did enjoy it at least a bit,” Aziraphale teases, looking out the window. “What was it you said about Mr DiCaprio’s demise? Something about—”

“They _both_ could have fit on that bloody door, Zira, you and I both know it!” Crowley interrupts, stepping on the gas.

Aziraphale turns to rest a hand on his shoulder.“I know, dear, I just wanted to hear you say it. You really were paying attention,” he replies, much to Crowley’s annoyance.

“Remember how I said you’re just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing? You’re solidifying that,” he snarks back.

They’re at the bookshop sooner that Crowley would have liked, but driving nearly forty over the speed limit will do that. His miracle-supplied parking spot is waiting for him when he pulls up. Crowley turns the car off and swings his door open, hurrying to the passenger’s side to open Aziraphale’s door for him and holds a hand out for him.

“Such a gentleman,” Aziraphale says, taking his hand to get out of the car.

Crowley rolls his eyes behind his glasses, his whole body compensating for the action. He walks Aziraphale to the door, watching it swing open with a small flourish from the angel. Crowley pulls away when the door shuts behind him.“Same time tomorrow?” he asks, hands on his hips.

Aziraphale laughs and grabs hold of his tie, pulling him down to press a kiss to his lips.“You’re welcome here at any hour, darling,” he says, smiling at the bright flush on the demon’s cheeks. “Come over whenever you feel like it. You should be getting home now, though, don’t let me keep you.”

Crowley nods and slides his glasses up to rest on his head, leaning back down for another kiss — which Aziraphale happily obliges. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” Crowley states, pulling away and heading for the door. “Love you, angel.”

“I love you too, dear,” Aziraphale calls after him, watching him leave the shop before he locks the door and retires to his upstairs flat for a cup of tea.

What Aziraphale doesn’t notice is the quiet commotion outside; the quick snatch of a demon as the moon rises over Soho from a familiar set of angels. Despite Crowley’s best efforts, Gabriel and Sandalphon manage to catch him by surprise and drag him away from Earth and towards Heaven, efficiently knocking him out as they take off.

  


Crowley comes to with one of the worst headaches of his life. The only thing he gets a chance to register is that he’s sitting down before he’s bombarded with bright light.

“Good morning, sleeping beauty,” a familiar voice states from in front of him. Crowley cracks his eyes open to stare at Gabriel, looking smug as ever. “Enjoy your nap?”

“Not particularly,” Crowley replies, trying to lift a hand to find his glasses. It’s effectively stopped by the shackles he’s bound with, tying him to the chair he’s sat in. “Nice to see you too, Gabriel.”

The Archangel turns his nose up at Crowley, giving him a once-over. Crowley ignores the twinge of emotion in his chest at the look he’s given by the angel that used to be his brother. “It’s a shame Hell couldn’t kill you,” Gabriel sighs, “but you know what they say — if you want something done, do it yourself.”

Crowley looks over the top of his sunglasses, crooking an eyebrow up. “Last time I checked, Michael _was_ you — or at least, one _of_ you,” he fires back. “Not my fault if it was God’s will for me to —”

“It was _not_ God’s will!” Gabriel barks back, taking the few steps needed to reach the chair, pushing it backwards by a foot with, Crowley presumes, rage-fueled power. Crowley wonders exactly when Gabriel grew up to be such an asshat.

The Archangel’s flare of rage is quieted almost immediately as he smooths a wrinkle in the gray fabric and takes a breath. “No matter. It won’t be a problem for much longer.”

“What do you mean by that?” Crowley mocks viciously, lips curled back into a half-smile, half-snarl.

Gabriel gives what can only be described as a diabolical smile as the door to the room opens, Sandalphon entering holding a particularly wicked-looking blade.

Crowley’s face falls.

“Demon Crowley, Serpent of Eden, stopper of Armageddon,” Gabriel states, “I hereby sentence you to death.” He turns to Sandalphone. “He’s all yours.”

Crowley doesn’t call out when Gabriel turns and leaves, but he does when the first strike comes.

  


Aziraphale did not do sleep until quite recently. Crowley had always spoken so fondly of it, so he eventually caves into the demon’s temptations and tries it out. He learns that he enjoys it — he doesn’t _need_ rest, per se, but there’s something refreshing about climbing out of bed while the sun rises over Soho. He gets up and snaps to heat the kettle instantly, making himself a cup of tea before he goes to fetch the morning paper.

When he unlocks the door to the shop, he freezes. If he were human, he thinks he would have felt his blood go cold at the mundane sight in front of him.

“Oy,” a passerby says as he jogs by, “Nice car!” The man continues on his route, never knowing the importance of that car and its parking spot, and why it’s so _wrong_ for it to be where it is.

Crowley did not go to his flat without the Bentley — even on the off chance he decided to fly, he’d always miracle the Bentley back to his flat. The Bentley has been one consistency with Crowley for nearly a century — he’d never leave it behind willingly, even if he did trust Aziraphale with his entire being. The Bentley was too important for Crowley not to have it nearby.

So, like any reasonable spouse, he panics. He hurries back inside, checking every nook and cranny that a snake could possibly hide in before he comes to the (startling, terrifying, chilling) conclusion that Crowley isn’t in the shop. His hands shake as he finishes off his tea that’s gone cold. He picks through all the thoughts that soar through his mind, sorting through the outrageous and the more frightening ones.

There had to be an explanation. Crowley would not just disappear — especially without any kind of warning. It wasn’t like him, not after all the time the two had spent together reassuring they wouldn’t leave the other without a fight. That seems the most likely outcome, but Crowley had been very sure that Hell would not come for him. Word is, that Satan’s currently residing on Earth, partying it up across the ocean in California, leaving Hell to do as Hell pleased. He had, supposedly, left soon after the Armageddon’t — and had no plans of going back Below.

Which left one option, and frankly, a frightening one.

Heaven.

Aziraphale considers the options before going in, as much as he just wants to fly up there right this minute. On one hand, he should have a plan of attack. Heaven will not let Crowley go without a fight, and Heaven _can_ fight. On the other hand, Aziraphale could try to catch them by surprise and get Crowley out by stealth. But, then again, that _would_ require stealth and Aziraphale’s never been good at that.

In the end, Aziraphale unfurls his wings and takes off skyward, preparing for the worst fight of his life.

  


When he gets to Heaven, he is let right in. That’s where his suspicions begin. While he storms into Heaven, a few angels wave at him. He’s unsure if they know who he is, or if they just don’t care. Maybe Heaven has just stopped caring? He rushes through the City, until he ultimately bumps into an angel — an angel with the _rank_ of plain-angel.

“Pardon,” Aziraphale apologizes, “I’m looking for—”

“That demon?” she replies, brushing short brown hair from her face. She gestures to a small, light grey building a hundred yards away. “I saw them take him that way. Archangel Uriel said they’d expect you to come. Good luck.”

Aziraphale nods and scoots past her, determination set on his face. He quickly reaches the building, walking around to the front, which Gabriel is stationed at.

“Aziraphale,” he greets, “you look... the same as I last saw you.” Aziraphale forces a grin, trying to summon the patience not to rip him apart at that moment.

“Gabriel,” he replies, “I’m here to collect Crowley.”

Gabriel laughs, shaking his head. “No, no, we’re handling it. As management, you know, you understand.” Gabriel gives a smile that churns Aziraphale’s stomach.

Aziraphale balls his fist, staring the Archangel down. “What have you done with him?” he demands, voice shaking with anger.

Gabriel scoffs. “Only what he deserves,” he replies matter-of-factly, crossing his arms. “Really, Aziraphale, I thought you would be glad to get rid of him after all this time. We’re doing you a _favour._ ”

Aziraphale’s face twitches, anger barely restrained. He’s not an angry angel — never has been, not like some of the others are. In this moment, though, he’s ready to single-handedly tear Heaven apart to get to Crowley.

It seems he doesn’t have to, as Sandalphon walks out of the room behind Gabriel and strides down the stairs, miracling the dark blood off himself. He’s carrying a knife, wicked-looking and curved with a serrated edge. With a snap, it’s cleaned off as well, and Aziraphale feels his stomach drop at the sight.

“It’s done,” Sandalphon says, indifference and a vague disgust painted on his face. As if whatever he had done to Crowley was nothing more than an unpleasant business deal.

Gabriel nods, clapping his hands together. He claps Sandalphon on the shoulder as he passes by. “Excellent work,” he replies, and Aziraphale runs cold at the panic that seizes him.

Aziraphale pushes past Gabriel, human heart pounding in his chest, thoughts rushing through his head far too fast to fully comprehend. Sandalphon had said “it was done”, but — what on Earth was _it?_

When he enters the room he wishes he hadn’t asked.

Crowley is laying on the floor in the centre of the stark-white room, adjacent to an equally-white chair. The only thing dark about it is the demon in it and the blood smeared on said chair and the floor around it, steadily coming from Crowley. Crowley, who’s not moving. He’s always moving. Aziraphale makes a strangled noise and nearly drops the sword in his hand in the rush to get over to him.

“Crowley,” he chokes out, dropping the sword to his side in favour to grab the man’s shoulders, flinching at the feeling of tacky, partially-dried blood. It tints Crowley’s gray shirt maroon, the fabric soaking it up. He’s thankful when he hears a pained groan because at least the demon is _alive_.

“Angel,” Crowley manages, attempting to roll himself over, but his arm gives way with the weight, causing him to crumple back down onto the floor with a pained cry. “Was wondering if you’d find me.” He manages a smile, dark blood leaking through the grimace.

Aziraphale carefully manages to roll him over, surveying injuries. He wants to be sick. “I—”

“‘S not good,” Crowley manages through gritted teeth, hissing when Aziraphale puts pressure on a long gash across his collarbones. “Didn’t wanna… drag you into it.”

“You foolish serpent,” the angel tuts, trying to conceal the panic bubbling up in his throat. He turns his attention to the worst of the wounds, a knife stuck in between two of the demon’s ribs.

Crowley huffs, bringing a hand up to it, and rips it out with a sickening noise before Aziraphale can stop him. _“Shit!”_ he curses, head lolling back with the wave of pain that surges over him like a tidal wave.

Aziraphale tries to provide a healing miracle, to no avail, and instead presses his hand to the stab wound.“I can’t— it’s not _working_ , this shouldn’t be—”

“Miracles don’t— don’t count when it’s celestial weapons,” Crowley chokes out, turning his head to spit out a mouthful of blood.

“There has to be _something—”_

“Angel,” Crowley chokes, turning his head to spit out blood, “you need to leave.”

“Are you _mad?_ ” Aziraphale snaps back, “Crowley, you— you’ll _die_ , not— this won't be a discorporation, this will be an _unmaking!”_

As if to illustrate the point, Crowley is wracked with a shudder while more blood pools in the hand Aziraphale has pressed to his ribs. Crowley shakes his head. “I don't care, they’re going to shove you into hellfire if you don't get out of here—”

“I’m not— I’m not going to leave you again,” Aziraphale manages. “I won't.”

Crowley brings his hand up, resting it against Aziraphale’s. “I think you were right,” he says, voice breathy and weak.

The blood has started flowing at an alarmingly quick pace. Aziraphale tries again to miraculously heal the demon, to no avail. Maybe if he can keep him talking— “What was I right about, dear boy?” he asks him, considering his options. The door was out of the question— the Archangels were still outside, as far as he knew. There weren't any windows, and he’d pushed so much energy into trying healing miracles, he doesn't know if he can get them back to Earth.

Crowley lays his head against the angel’s thigh. “I think,” he manages, coughing again, and Aziraphale is panicking, begging the Almighty not to take this demon from him. “I think I— I go to fast, not just for you but… for everyone. For me.”

“No, no, you don't—you don't,” he says, gripping Crowley’s hand. “Please, Crowley, don’t do this, don't leave me all alone on Earth. I need someone to thwart, remember?”

That gets a laugh out of the demon before he takes a shaky breath. “Aziraphale, I—” Crowley’s hand goes lax in his hand, just as the word dies in Crowley’s throat with a sickening gurgle.

Aziraphale shakes him, but he already knows what the result is going to be. “Crowley?” he says quietly, the grief already welling up in his throat. “Crowley, please—”

He is met with only silence and an aching pain in his chest.

That is, until the Archangels enter the room.

  


Similar to the Beginning, in the End, there is nothing.

The first thing he notices are his wings in their corporeal form — jet black in the lack of light, which is the second thing he notices. Crowley is in a pitch-dark expanse of nothingness, like space before he and Lucifer hung the stars. That was a lifetime ago — before either of them had Fallen. When they were both young creations, when everything was better. Crowley is painfully aware that he is very, very dead, and he is, admittedly, a little frightened. No one knows what happens to celestials when they die, where they go. Crowley would rather not find out. He would like to go back to his angel and the bookshop. He would also really like his glasses.

_Raphael,_ a familiar voice rings in his mind. He hasn’t heard that voice in over six thousand years. He whirls around and there She is, ethereal and shockingly corporeal — as corporeal as anything in this strange between-realm can be, at least.

“Almighty,” he replies, voice tight. “What do you want.” It is a statement, not a question — he hasn’t spoken to God since long before his Fall, when he was still the middle child out of Her children, tasked with healing and keeping the peace between his idiot siblings. She had stopped talking to them before the war, before Lucifer’s Fall.

“Just to talk,” She tells him, using the human mouth.

He takes Her appearance: a middle-aged human woman, subtle laughter lines around her cheeks and the corners of her eyes. She looks like a mother — a grandmother, even, really. She is wearing a pristine white pantsuit, perfectly tailored, with an equally-pristine ascot-tie tied around her throat. Her hair is the same colour as Aziraphale’s, Her eyes the same shade of blue.

Crowley wishes Aziraphale were here with him, not in the dead sense, but in the comforting presence sense. “Talk about what?” he spits back, eyes narrowed. “I have _nothing_ to say to you. You—” He cuts himself off, running a hand through his hair roughly, trying not to let the emotions of the situation get the best of him. “You cast me out. For— for asking questions.” He turns his back on her, shoulders hunched. “I don’t want to hear anything from you.”

He hears God sigh, sounding like a tired parent when their toddler pitches a fit over not getting dessert after dinner. “I was afraid,” She replies after a moment, “I was hurting, after your brother Fell. I… made a mistake, Raphael. I thought casting you out was for the best, but I was wrong.”

Crowley whirls around and crosses the distance between the two of them in an instant, pupils pinning into tiny slits. His wings twitch up and down, feathers flared out wide. There’s nothing he can do to control the quivering showing in the primaries and secondaries, though, when he is nose-to-nose with the Creator.

“I _trusted_ you!” he shouts at Her, teeth bared in a tight snarl. “I thought— I _believed_ that everything would work out with the lot of them! And where were _You?_ ” He actually pushes two fingers into the chest of Her form, where a sternum would be. She is surprisingly solid. “ _You_ were off ogling at humanity! Letting Your children fight a useless fight!”

The look on Her face radiates indifference, arms at Her side. Crowley takes a staggering step back, pain welling up in his chest. “It was necessary,” She replies simply, “your brother—”

“Didn’t deserve to Fall!” Crowley shouts back. “You—you wouldn’t _know_ , what it’s like.”

She quirks an eyebrow up. “I am the one who made Falling possible,” She replies simply, “I know what it is like.”

Crowley shakes his head, fists clenched, and turns around because looking at Her physically causes his entire being to ache. He feels the familiar hurt of losing his Mother’s love all over again—a feeling he hadn’t felt this acutely in millennia.

“Did you hear me?” he asks Her, swallowing down the emotions surging up his throat, burning like holy water. “Did you hear me when I cried out for You?” He is met with nothing but silence. He’s not turning around to see the inevitable, plain look on Her face. “Did You hear me when I cried out for the pain to stop? Or maybe—maybe You heard me when I prayed for the war to stop, for things to go back to the way they were?”

“Raphael, I—”

“That’s not my _fucking name!”_ he shouts back, whirling back around to face Her.

There’s not indifference painted across Her features this time — there’s something closer to pain etched there, and for a brief moment, She looks old. Crowley can’t bring himself to care, trying to steady the shaking in his body.

“That—that hasn’t been my name in _millennia_ , because _You_ took it away from me when You threw me out of Heaven, and for what?” His fists get impossibly tighter, holding onto six thousand years of pain and anguish. “For asking questions? Going against you? Healing the hurt on both sides, what _You_ made me to do?” He is overcome with a sudden desire to hit God, and with a surge forward, he is fairly sure that’s what’s going to happen.

Two things happen in the span of a second.

One, God opens Her arms. It’s an interesting gesture, really, because She is opening Herself up for a blatant attack from Crowley, who is surging forward. It’s a scene out of a renaissance painting, God’s arms outspread as if She were Jesus on the cross ( _some other innocent She let die,_ Crowley thinks bitterly. At least he had come back), Crowley surging forward not unlike Longinus.

Something else snaps inside Crowley, though, seeing God as he’d seen Her when he was newly-formed — still a child, really, by angelic standards.

That snap is immediately followed by the second thing that happens: Crowley does not strike Her. Instead, he falters and Her arms wrap around his shoulders, embrace warm with what could only be described as Heavenly grace. It feels like _home,_ in a similar way that driving the Bentley and kissing Aziraphale feel like home. It’s not the same — there is something inherently different about this, because it’s _God_ , and She is his Mother. His head is pressed against Her shoulder, Her hands securely keeping him close.

“I’m sorry, Crowley,” She says into his hair. “I am so very sorry.”

Crowley cries.

He’s not a stranger to crying, but that doesn’t mean he enjoys the feeling. There’s something to be said of the vulnerability he’s feeling, though, with his Mother’s arms secure around him in an embrace he hasn’t felt in thousands of years. It’s comforting.

“I never _*meant*_ to Fall,” he mutters into the fabric of Her suit jacket. “I just asked questions.”

“I know,” She says, a hand running through his hair. “I know you didn’t mean to, dear.”

  


The second Crowley takes his last breath, the Archangels are hit with a sickening feeling of guilt and grief. None feel it more acutely than the one residing in LA, reclining in his mock-throne. The Devil is glad he’s sitting down, because the tidal wave of pain and emotion that surges over him in an instant is enough to cripple him for a moment.

The head demon at his side turns to face him. “Lucifer?” Mazikeen asks, leaning against the wall watching the clubgoers.

Lucifer staggers up after a moment, the only things he’s aware of are _Raphael_ and _pain_ and _panic._

Mazikeen pushes off from her spot on the wall, moving to help him stand. To the passerby, it looks like he’s blackout drunk. “Lucifer, what’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” he grinds out, teeth bared in a grimace. Maze narrows her eyes to look around the room. “It’s nothing here, it’s— it’s something _else.”_

“What else could it be?” she replies.

He squeezes his eyes shut. “Something with my brothers, I think,” he replies.

Maze curls her lip at the mention of the angels. “Do you need to go?” she asks.

He nods, shaking the pain off momentarily to stand up straight. “Hold down the fort,” he says, tone clipped, and heads for the exit, pushing his way past swathes of people.

With a quick wave of his hand and one miracle later, Lucifer’s at the gates of the Silver City and rushes in, following the trail of grief and pain — something that stands out starkly in Heaven. He comes to the building it emanates from and pushes the door open, greeted by three flighty Archangels and a mantled principality. It’s hard to tell what exactly the angel is standing over to guard, until Lucifer gets a glimpse of fiery red hair amongst the state of disaster in the room.

“Raphael,” he chokes out, something clenching in his chest. Four sets of eyes turn onto him, while he pays them no mind in favour of rushing forward.

The principality bristles, and Lucifer stops in his tracks, stuck between the door and where his brother was laying. Lucifer recognizes the other angel now, the same one who was with Crowley to stop Armageddon a few years back. Aziraphale, he thinks. He can’t tear his eyes off of the body underneath him. “What… what _happened?”_

“We— we didn’t—” Gabriel never _was_ good under pressure when confronted with his superiors, always fumbling over his words.

Lucifer turns to Michael, expectant of an answer. His stomach rolls when he shifts a foot into a spatter of dark, half-dried blood.

“We— we killed him,” Michael manages. “We didn’t— we didn’t know until after, and we just—”

“ _What did you do!”_ Lucifer roars, rounding on the group of his siblings. His chest heaves with the rage overtaking the acute sense of pain.

Gabriel flinches at the sudden outburst, Uriel moving behind him ever-so-slightly.

“We didn’t _know!”_ Michael shouts back, one of their wing sets springing free, bright gold light nearly blinding in the sheer brightness of the room ( _Wrong,_ Lucifer thinks, _Our brother is dead. Nothing should ever be bright ever again_ ). “He wasn’t very forthcoming with the information!”

“ _You_ saw him that day in Hell,” Lucifer seethes, eyes flaring red. “You should have _recognized him!”_

“I thought it was Mother’s will!” Michael snaps back, voice tense with emotion. “I didn’t think it was _him!”_ Lucifer shakes his head, turning away from Michael. He can’t see much under the principality’s wings, but his brother’s body is covered in blood, unmoving and grotesque. “This is— this is your fault,” he accuses, head turned enough so Michael will know it’s directed at them.

He hears them make an offended noise. “Don’t hold yourself higher above us, _brother,”_ they snap back. “You could have found out just as easily as we could have.”

Lucifer sees red and whirls around, crossing the room to Michael, coming nose-to-nose with them. _“Do you know how often I saw him after I Fell?”_ he hisses out dangerously, both fists clenched tight as not to start a brawl.

Michael flinches, but shakes their head.

“I saw him at _least_ once every century. I—” Lucifer takes a broken step backwards. “He sent me _reports,_ he— I had connections and he _never told me.”_

“He— he didn’t tell any of us,” Uriel quietly chimes in from her end of the room with Gabriel, who has stayed blissfully ( _Wisely,_ Lucifer notes) quiet.

“He didn’t _tell me_ ,” Lucifer repeats to himself, taking another step away from Michael. They only relax slightly. Lucifer swallows the building guilt and _pain_ welling up in his throat. Had he missed something in any of those reports? Crowley had always made it apparent to see Lucifer at least once every century — he’d always made up an excuse as to why. Commendation this, complicated details that. Had it been an excuse to see his brother? Did Crowley want him to figure it out on his own?

He thinks back to right after his Fall. How long after that had it been Raphael’s turn? Had he gone it alone, or had he fallen with one of the groups? He’d met Crawly shortly after his own Fall, but how long was _shortly?_ Time seemed to pass differently back then, with everything going on. Nothing seemed quite linear. How long had he let his brother suffer, isolated and alone, cast out just like he was?

This was, ultimately, _his fault_. Lucifer hadn’t ever questioned the appearance of him. Hell, he hadn’t know Raphael was missing until millennia later. His siblings didn’t keep him in the loop, and no one would expect Mum to shoot the Morningstar a letter or two. He lifts his head, willing the feelings away as best he can before he speaks again

“He was alone,” Lucifer states, voice dripping with tension. “Do you know how painful Falling is, when—”

“He had _me!”_ the principality shouts, startling the rest of the members in the room. When they turn towards him, he blanches before he steadies himself again. “I’m not particularly sure what’s going on, but— I’m gathering enough to have an idea, and Crowley— he always had _me,_ if no one else!”

Lucifer quirks an eyebrow up in Michael’s general direction, which just earns him a half-shrug and a tilted wing. Lucifer takes another step forward, and the principality suddenly holds a familiar flaming sword, his face is steely, eyes narrowed and brows furrowed, and his wings mantle out more over the demon’s body under him.

“Easy now, don’t want to hurt anyone,” Lucifer tells him. The angel does nothing but level the sword at him. Lucifer takes a step forward and is met with the business end of the sword pointed at his chest. He laughs and takes a few more steps forward. A lowly principality wouldn’t threaten _Satan_ , for crying out loud.

Except he does. When Lucifer gets within distance, the point of the sword is inches away from his chest. The flames just barely reach the suit, but Lucifer wills it not to burn up — it’s one of his favourites, after all.

“Not a step closer,” the principality growls. “Not until you explain how Crowley’s related to you in all of this.”

Lucifer raises his hands again, even summoning his wings in a gesture of good will — the same damn wings he’d been trying to get rid of for weeks. “Very well. No need to hurt anyone,” he says, plastering a forced smile onto his face.

“I think it’s a bit late for that,” the angel snaps back, but relaxes when Lucifer takes another step back. “Now, start talking.”

Lucifer coughs.

“There were always five,” Lucifer starts. “Five siblings.” He flinches when Michael shifts a little closer to him.

“The oldest a set of almost-twins,” Michael manages. “And the middle a Healer, and then the two youngest. A messenger and the angel of the arts.”

Aziraphale flits a glance to Gabriel and Uriel, standing off to his side. Michael wipes at their eyes. “And then the Great War happened. Raphael was the Healer, tasked to tend to the wounded and the ill, no matter the side they were on. He never faltered, he never chose a side. He only wanted to help.”

“After I Fell,” Lucifer continues, “some of the angels asked questions. They Fell too, and became the first demons. This was when the Archangel Raphael disappeared, commonly believed to be off in the cosmos creating new galaxies.” He swallows. “He never was, I suppose, he was busy on Earth, but not as an Archangel. Not as himself.”

Aziraphale narrows his eyes at the two oldest angels in existence. “You mean to tell me that Crowley— _Crowley_ — is the missing Archangel?” he asks incredulously.

Lucifer nods solemnly, managing to ease his way forward a few steps. “How else would all of us be in here without tearing each other to shreds?” he asks, his eyes darting to Gabriel and Michael. “What else would unite a group of siblings than the death of one of their own?”

Aziraphale caves after the explanation sets in fully, exhausted from his efforts of defending the demon’s body. His wings drop ever so slightly in favor for him to kneel down to bring the angel-formerly-known-as-Raphael to his chest.

Lucifer surges forward the rest of the distance to pull a stark-cold hand into one of his own. He doesn’t acknowledge Michael coming to stand next to him, then kneel. Michael puts a hand out to rest on Raphael’s arm, their hand shaking. Lucifer flinches when their head comes to lean on his shoulder, and the eldest brother flinches at the feeling of pain that radiates from the corporeal body.

“I want to be angry,” Lucifer chokes out after a moment, his bottom lip quivering, “but— I _can’t_ because the rest of you are so bloody upset.” He is met with resounding silence from his siblings. He balls his free hand into a fist, willing himself not to cry. “I taught him how to make the stars, you know. He asked me to show him, he asked if he was _stepping on my toes._ He didn’t want to make me feel bad.”

“He always was a peacekeeper,” Michael manages meekly before they turn their head onto Lucifer’s shoulder and wail.

Lucifer clenches his eyes shut, but nothing stops the tears that come despite his best efforts. He hadn’t known the Serpent of Eden had been the middle child, the Healer, the best out of the lot of them. The one he’d taught to hang the stars and make the nebulas. No one had sent him the memo. No letter, no email, no _Hey, your baby brother is a demon now! Keep an eye out, aye?_

Aziraphale keeps rubbing at Raphael’s hand, as if to try and warm the body that once housed his soul. It doesn’t work, but it doesn’t stop the principality from doing it anyways.

Lucifer brings his brother’s hand onto his forehead, and takes a shuddering breath.

Lucifer, for the longest time, had felt that death was for lesser beings. Lesser demons, for example, could be easily killed by humans. Humans were easily killed by, well, _anything_ , as he’d come to find out so intimately from his time on Earth.

In the moment, when he surveys the room, Lucifer thinks he’s come to the conclusion they’re all thinking. Uriel and Gabriel, clinging to each other like a buoy in a hurricane. Michael, sobbing into his suit jacket. Lucifer himself, clutched onto the hand of his newly-dead brother like a lifeline. Lucifer decides it then: death is something for lesser beings, not for their brother.

  


They stay like that for a long time — Crowley sniffling into God’s shoulder, with Her hand on his back to keep him close. She radiates warmth and love, not unlike Aziraphale does when they’re laying in bed after a long day, curled up into Crowley’s side reading a book. What Crowley would give for the angel to be here at this moment, his presence a comfort. Aziraphale had always wanted to speak with God, on some occasion or another — just… not like this.

“I don't want to go,” he says after a moment. “I won’t — I can't leave him.”

God nods, thoughtful. She waves a hand, the space in front of both beings rippling like water. Crowley turns towards it, reaching out to touch it only for his hand to go straight through. The picture develops slowly.

“You’re being grieved,” She says quietly, a hand on his shoulder. The scene they’re met with makes Crowley’s heart ache.

Aziraphale is cradling his body to his chest, a hand shakily running through the corpse’s hair while his mouth moves with words Crowley can’t hear. Crowley swallows around a quickly-forming lump of grief building up in his throat. He takes in the rest of the scene, narrowing his eyes at two figures with their backs to him, their wings visible. He takes a shaky breath, taking in the familiar colours of wings he hasn’t seen in millennia.

“Is… is that—”

“Samael?” God asks him. He nods. “Yes, that’s him. And yes, that’s Michael leaning on him.” Crowley gives a shaky exhale in response. “They’re crying for you, you know. They didn’t know, until after you died. They weren’t able to really connect the dots, so to say.

“Makes sense,” he says distantly. Gabriel and Uriel are gathered behind Aziraphale, standing together while tears roll down their cheeks. Crowley tries to focus on anything but the pain he feels in his chest when Gabriel wraps a wing around their youngest sibling while she cries. “I can’t go back, can I?”

“Death doesn’t take kindly to instances of the dead coming back to life, no,” God answers, Her hand still solid on Her son’s shoulder. Crowley nods resolutely. He doesn’t notice the faint smile playing on God’s lips while he despairs, words he wished he’d said flying through his mind. “I am not Death, Crowley. I don’t abide by the same rules.”

He turns to face her, forcing himself to ignore the heaving shoulders of his eldest two siblings, the tears of the youngest, and the face of his lover mourning him. All of that for _him_.

“You can take me back?” he asks, unwilling to get his hopes up.

God shrugs again, looking intently at the reflection in front of Her. “I’ve done so once before, haven’t I?” She replies, eyes squinted just slightly from the smile on Her face. “However, I don’t believe you’ll be made a Messiah.”

Crowley manages a laugh at that, nodding. “I think I’m okay with that,” he states.

She smiles at him before sliding Her hand off his shoulder. “Then let us be off.”

  


Everything is relatively still in the execution room — an informal title, but an apt one. The only noise comes from an occasional sniffle from one of the angels in the room, and an occasional shuffle of wings. Gabriel and Uriel had moved to be closer to their brother’s body, one of Gabriel’s wings pulled protectively around Uriel’s shaking frame.

Everything happens relatively fast. One moment Crowley’s body is nearly stiff with _rigor mortis_ , and the next there’s a deafening breath breaking the silence that doesn’t come from one of the living members of the room. It’s almost undetectable, but it’s _there_. Angels and demons don’t technically require breath, but ones that had been around humans for long enough would pick it up. Crowley’s chest rose and fell, slowly, but very much so enough that he was alive.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale whispers, expecting it to be some grief-stricken hallucination — but no, Michael and Lucifer are taking stock of the situation. They must have seen it too.

“Raphael?” Michael hesitantly offers, giving a gentle shake to his shoulder.

Crowley groans in response. “‘S not m’ name,” he slurs out, an eye cracking open, gold peeking through. “M’ name’s Crowley.”

“As it will be,” God says from behind Aziraphale.

Michael stands, attention focused on God. Lucifer does his best to ignore the being altogether.

“Creator,” Michael begins, before Gabriel interrupts.

“Mother,” he breathes out. “You— he’s—”

She lifts a hand effectively silencing him. “I do not need your thanks,” She states, looking each member of the room over.

Her eyes come to rest on Aziraphale, still knelt over Crowley’s prone form. The demon is exhausted, and since mustering enough strength to speak a few words, he has since opted to collapse instead of engaging in conversation.

“Good,” Lucifer grumbles under his breath, still holding Crowley’s hand.

God laughs, and the rest of the Archangels flinch.

Lucifer raises his head to stare defiantly at Her.

“Samael, it is good to see you,” She says.

Lucifer opts to glare daggers back at her. “I would say the same, but I’m covered in my brother’s blood and you’re here, so, not exactly my idea of _good_ ,” he snaps back.

She shrugs, giving him a look of indifference. “Fair enough.” She turns to the rest of them. “I come with a gift and with a message. You’ve received the gift— I hope it suffices well enough.”

Michael nods.

God turns to Her eldest two children. “Do not take it for granted. You are family. I have given you this gift, I could have let Death take him. It will do you well to remember that.”

And as quickly as She had appeared, She disappeared just as quickly, leaving Her children shellshocked.

Crowley coughs and sits up, clinging to Aziraphale, who clutches him like a lifeline. Crowley wretches his hand away from Lucifer. “Get _offa_ me,” he snaps, venom dripping in his tone as he steadies himself.

Lucifer draws back slightly. “Brother, I—”

“Don’t you _dare!”_ Crowley snaps, turning his head towards his siblings. “You don’t get to call me that, not after this little stunt.” He gropes around in the space around him. “Angel, my— my glasses. Where—”

“Here, dear,” Aziraphale offers, miracling up a new pair to place carefully onto his nose.

Crowley visibly relaxes, taking a breath. He turns again to look at Lucifer and Michael. Lucifer reaches out to grip his arm, but Crowley flinches backwards.

“Raph, we only—”

Lucifer is cut off by a hiss.

“ _That’s not my bloody name,”_ Crowleygrowls, one hand clenched into a fist and the other clinging to Aziraphale’s jacket.

Michael’s face falls. “Raphael, we didn’t mean to— we didn’t _know_ , Raphael,” Michael offers, creeping closer on their knees.

Crowley shakes his head and stumbles to stand, Aziraphale fretting over him and acting as a brace. “I don’t fucking _care_ ,” he spits back, “you lot— the whole lot of you— tried to execute me.”

Crowley trips, managing not to fall on his face only by Aziraphale and Lucifer’s quick reflexes. He shoves Lucifer away from him with a heaving breath, with a shocking amount of strength for someone recently resurrected. “You _did_ execute me. And now, what, you think you can just— just act like that’s okay, because you didn’t _know?”_

The glimpse they get of Crowley’s eyes behind his glasses break their hearts a little. He doesn’t see his family, he sees his judge, jury, and executioners.

“Crowley,” Lucifer finally manages, keeping his distance. “Please, we— had we known, had _I_ known—”

Aziraphale manages to keep Crowley upright at his next outburst of anger — Lucifer is sure it takes a miracle by the way his brother sways on his feet. “That doesn’t fucking matter!” he shouts at the room. He gestures to Uriel and Gabriel. “They murdered me!”

Crowley gestures again, wildly, to Michael. “They didn’t stop it!”

Finally, his gaze falls on Lucifer again. “And you— I Fell, and I called out for _you_ , and you never came. When I was racing past the stars we hung, I cried out for you to make it stop and nothing happened. And then when I got to Hell, I went looking for you, only to be turned away by that Lilim guard of yours, at your orders, and the bloody woman _stabbed me!_ While I was already down!”

Lucifer hadn’t pieced it together, but now he does. Shortly after his own Fall, Mazikeen had reported a demon trying to seek a council. He had told her to get rid of them by whatever means necessary, because he was trying to rein in Hell and focus on his own Fall.

“I had no idea,” Lucifer offers quietly.

Crowley shrugs. “It doesn’t matter now, does it?” he questions, voice thick with emotion. “I don’t want to see any of you. None of you, not until I decide to. I’m going home.”

He takes a few steps before he nearly stumbles again, Aziraphale draping one of the demon’s arms around his shoulders for support as the two walk out together. The room is still until they get out the door, when Lucifer chases after them. He catches them just as Aziraphale opens up his wings to fly them back to Earth.

“Crowley, please, don’t—” Lucifer chokes on the words in his throat. “I— I’ve lost everything. Amenadiel, and— and Mazikeen is still cross with me, and—” He can’t even bring up the detective right now, he can’t picture her horrified face and the way she flinched away from him. Not right now. “And— I’m sorry.”

Crowley stops. “You what?” he asks, voice hovering above a mutter.

Lucifer swallows, trying to find the words. “I’m sorry. For— for not letting you in, for letting Bez run everything, for that day at the airfield,” he rambles, “and I’m sorry for not connecting the dots sooner.”

Crowley scoffs, back still towards Lucifer. He carefully turns, ignoring the angel’s tutting at his side. “Sorry really doesn’t mean anything,” he says dryly, “sympathy from the devil, and all that.” He rubs at his eyes, glasses pushed up just slightly.

Lucifer sighs, trying to think of a way to get Crowley to listen. He comes up with only one thing— something that hurts, because it is decidedly what the detective decided to do, but something that seems to work.

“Just… Call me when you’re ready,” he tells him, “and I’ll listen. I’ll even come to London.”

Crowley mulls it over, sharing a glance with Aziraphale. One look conveying an entire silent conversation — something Lucifer had gotten good at with Chloe, even with Amenadiel as of late. Not that either of them were around to speak to (or _not_ to speak to, in this instance). He considers, briefly, tracking his brother down while he’s in Heaven — but then again, Chloe had wanted space, and maybe Amenadiel did too, after Charlotte’s death. Maybe that was it.

Crowley turns back to him. “We’ll be in touch,” he replies, “but right now I want to go home and yell at my plants. Let’s go, angel.”

With the parting words, Aziraphale spreads his wings and starts their journey down back to Earth, leaving Lucifer alone.

“You should be going,” a voice says from behind him. He turns and there is Uriel, standing on the steps of the building, her arms crossed.

Lucifer nods. “Yes, yes, I suppose I should be.” He opens his own wings — damn things always came back, no matter how hard he tried to keep them away — flexing the muscles and walking towards the exit.

Uriel coughs behind him. “Luci?” Uriel calls after him. Lucifer turns, cocking an eyebrow up. “Do take care. Let… let us know how he’s doing — of course, because Michael will want to know.”

Lucifer smiles a bit at the quick cover from his sister, but nods sharply.

“Of course. Stay out of mischief,” he tells her, giving her a half-smile. Her face remains stony as he turns away, pushing down the hurt in his chest as he leaves Heaven to go back to his empty penthouse.

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to @ranichi17 for beta'ing this for me and for the line "death is something for lesser beings, not for their brother." 
> 
> I'm a little bit sorry for the angst, but now the only way to go is up. I hope you enjoyed it nonetheless! I have at least two other fics in the series planned, so stay tuned!


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